


Fresh Caught

by SealLullaby



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Chef Hannibal, Chef Will, Crack, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Minor Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, restaurant AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 18:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10600098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SealLullaby/pseuds/SealLullaby
Summary: A cannibalistic restauranteur attempts to sabotage his competitor's business but falls in love with the owner.Or the one where Hannibal is a pretentious asshole who doesn't know how to act like a normal human being.





	

Hannibal Lecter paused outside of his restaurant to stare at the building across the street. He had never seen it before, or rather he had never noticed it before. The structure was worn-down, barely held together by dull red bricks and mortar. On a street lined with urbane boutiques and luxurious storefronts, it stood out like a splotch of mud on silk. A wooden sign hung over the door and declared the building to be _Madaline’s_ , and in smaller letters beneath those was _Cajun Cuisine._

Hannibal’s lip curled. It was a rather tasteless name with too much alliteration and not enough imagination. Hannibal’s own restaurant was named after wispy recollections from the past: _Vakarinė._ It brought back memories of chilly winter days in the forest of Lithuania, his mother’s warm hand on his back, and Mischa’s sweet laughter.

It was a strong, distinguishing name.

A young couple walked into the building across the street with their dog in tow. They brought a dog into a restaurant. A _dog_.

Hannibal turned and entered his own establishment, where animals were _not_ allowed. The rich scent of robust wines and subtle perfumes greeted him while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Dark Chestnut wood lined the walls of the entrance hall. _Leda and the Swan_ hung over the reception desk, framed by a pair of antlers. Bedelia had thought it was a tad too macabre and would frighten the diners. Hannibal had disagreed. He was right of course. _Vakarinė_ soon became the restaurant for the _haut monde_ of Maryland and much of the Northeast.

“I was told that you fired another server yesterday, Hannibal,” Bedelia said when he walked into the kitchen. She paused in her cheese grating. “You’re running low on people willing to work under your high expectations.”

“He came to work late. I will not pay for laziness,” Hannibal said. He rolled his sleeves up and washed his hands.

“He came in two minutes late, Hannibal.”

“Two minutes too late.” Hannibal refused to accept anything less than perfection from his staff members. It was similar to his days during surgical residency. Those who failed were forgotten and replaced, but those who survived became legends. Hannibal paid those loyal few small fortunes.

“He went to work at that new restaurant. The one across the street,” Bedelia said. “He says he likes it there.”

Hannibal scowled. “Of course he would. That place caters to dogs as well.”

Bedelia raised a brow. “I happen to find their selections rather delicious.”

It wasn’t often that Hannibal was taken aback, but the image of Bedelia eating dinner in a dilapidated dining room with a plastic fork and knife was ludicrous. “I didn’t know that you were so… open to new experiences.”

With a deliberate slowness, Bedelia smiled and said, “Oh yes. I highly recommend you try the jambalaya. It’s marvelous.” It was only through sheer willpower that Hannibal didn’t wince.

“I will pass, thank you,” Hannibal said.

“Oh come now, Hannibal. It really is amazing food, and the chef is rather adorable for a grown man,” Bedelia said. Her smile became more of a smirk. “I think you’d find him to your liking.”

Hannibal ignored her at that point and began examining the line chefs’ plates.

 

Sundays and Mondays were free for Hannibal. The restaurant was closed then, and Hannibal spent his Sunday mornings at the Baltimore farmers market, stocking up on smaller ingredients and socializing with farmers who delivered produce directly to his restaurant _._ It also provided a good location to hunt for the proper meat to stock his freezer. Those particular cuts were reserved exclusively for himself and his personal guests. Hannibal was careful never to bring his peculiar dishes to the restaurant.

That particular Sunday brought cool air and a bit of dampness from the previous night’s heavy rainfall. When Hannibal arrived at the market, tents had already been pitched and people were milling about. Ambient chatter filled the air, occasionally pierced by laughter.

Hannibal paused in front of a stall lined with freshly bottled herbs. The elderly man behind the stall noticed him and said, “Ah, hello, Hannibal. It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

“Good morning, Lucan,” Hannibal said, picking up a small jar of basil. He unscrewed the cap and tasted a sliver of the herb. Lucan watched with his large, watery eyes. When Hannibal hummed in approval, he beamed. “I would like two of your largest jars along with my usual order this week.” It was his turn to host the annual dinner party for the influential patrons of the Baltimore opera house that Saturday. Hannibal found most of his fellow socialites to be exceptionally uninteresting and would rather have listened to them squeal as he ran a blade over their flesh, but their contributions allowed for the fine arts scene in Baltimore to endure, so Hannibal figured that he would reward them in some fashion.

Much of the morning was spent in a similar manner. It was predictable, familiar, but then he paused by the fish stalls. His restaurant had a deal with another local fisher, but Hannibal had been thinking about switching to this one for some time. While he was examining a row of Atlantic croakers, a man stopped beside him.

After a moment, the man laughed. “Three types of catfish?”

The stall owner shrugged. “You never know what people like.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“I actually hate fish.” When the man made a noise of surprise, the stall owner said, “I know, I know. But it gets old after a while.” An older couple approached the stand, and the stall owner excused himself to speak with them.

Hannibal regarded the stranger out of the corner of his eye. He was an attractive man with a strong jaw and close-shaved beard, and he had a head of hair that rose slightly above his scalp in loose, disorderly curls. His button-down was old and wrapped comfortably around his broad shoulders, but his frayed jeans fit too loosely. Hannibal would have believed this man to be of meager means had he not been shopping at a fairly pricey farmers market.

“I prefer channel to blue catfish, but to each his own, I guess,” the man said, pinning Hannibal with blue-grey eyes that remind him of the sky on drizzly mornings. “Will Graham.”

“Hannibal Lecter.” He held out his hand, and Will’s eyes flitted over it. For a moment, Hannibal thought that Will would decline, but the other man eventually reached out. Will’s hand was slightly larger than his own, with a rough and calloused palm. “I prefer mackerel to either,” Hannibal said. Will’s eyebrows rose. “It’s an underestimated ingredient in sushi, and I am rather fond of sushi.”

Will made a face. “Not a huge fan of sushi myself, but I can see why people would use mackerel. It pairs well with ginger and garlic. Probably one of the few fishes that I can stand raw.” His words were long and drawling, a cadence that Hannibal couldn’t quite place.

With that, Hannibal felt a spark of interest. Outside of the restaurant, he knew few people who were interested in the culinary arts. Bedelia was one of those few, but she refused to discuss food outside of work, and Hannibal rarely had more than fleeting conversations with the rest of the staff. “It would,” he said. “Most find the fishy odor off-putting, but I believe the buttery flavor is worth the hassle.”

“It’s been years since I’ve been bothered by the smell of fish,” Will said. “But then again, New Orleans cuisine is famous for fish, and I’ve grown up with it.” His accent rolled over “New Orleans” and created a charming rhythm— _Nyoo Ahhlyins_.

“Baltimore must be quite different than the South,” Hannibal said.

“I just moved here a month ago,” he said, “with a friend.”

“And how do you like it?”

Will’s mouth pulled up in a lopsided smile. “Work’s kept me pretty busy, so I haven’t had an opportunity to do much, but I think I can get used to it.” Will stepped closer to him when a small crowd began forming around the stall, pushing the two of them further from the fish. Hannibal found that he didn’t mind the close proximity.

Hannibal was never a social child even before his family’s deaths. When he was young, he had preferred to sit by himself during playtime, favoring Mischa’s silent company and perhaps a board game or two over inviting another child into his home, and this antisocial behavior continued on for most of his adolescence. It was difficult for him to acquire the social graces he had managed to swathe himself in, however false they may be. Allowing others to become closer to him was foolish, what with his extracurricular activities.

However, he found himself interested in Will. Perhaps it was Will’s familiarity with food, his careworn countenance, or perhaps it was the glimmer of something unusual in his eyes. Regardless, Hannibal said, “I’m hosting a dinner for members of the Baltimore opera house next Saturday, and I insist that you and your friend attend. Consider it a welcome to my city.”

Will didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he blinked. Once. Twice. And then he said, “I—Well, that sounds nice. I mean, yes. I’d like that.” Hannibal watched Will’s cheeks fill with blood, and he was satisfied.

**Author's Note:**

> So I read DarkmoonSigel's "Murder Kitchen" a few times and started to wonder what would happen if Hannibal wasn't a murderous psychiatrist but was instead a murderous chef. I wrote this a few years ago but never got around to finishing it. When I read it again recently, I realized that I had something good going here and that I should finish it. Also, I'm definitely not a chef nor do I own a restaurant, so I've had to do some research here. 
> 
> Anyway, kudos and comments are appreciated!


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